Beautiful Fall

by Jordyn White

  Usually getting a call like that from Max’s mother puts me in a mood, but not only am I not feeling terrible, I’m feeling fantastic. I don’t know whether to be grateful for Lizzy’s soothing company, or ashamed for letting myself get so distracted from Max’s problems. Even though I keep reminding myself he’s probably okay this time.

  “My parents used to take us all the time when we were kids. It has this long, shallow beach that’s perfect for little legs to go wading in.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “And there’s a shaved ice shack nearby.” She gets a childlike gleam in her eyes. “You can’t beat that.”

  I laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.” My car pulls under the stone portico and she walks with me toward it.

  “Drive safely,” she says, as the valet gets out and hands me the keys. I give him his tip and he thanks me, leaving the door open and stealing silently away.

  Dropping our arms at last, I take hold of her hand and turn to her. She’s looking up at me with those beautiful green eyes of hers, and that velvety hook in my heart sinks in a little deeper. I hesitate for just a moment, then lean in, take her chin in my fingers, and give her a brief but meaningful kiss.

  Maybe this isn’t the place, but hey, she started it. Her hand on my arm was her mark on me. This kiss is my mark on her.

  I pull back to see she’s surprised, but smiling.

  I say goodbye, squeeze her hand, and let go at last so I can get in my car. I’m missing her before I even get out of the drive.

  Chapter 18

  Lizzy

  I’ve never been so exhausted and so happy at the same time. Brett called last night, after getting little Max into bed. We ended up talking for hours, about everything and anything and nothing at all. We kept trying to say goodnight so we could get to bed and get some sleep, but would end up talking and laughing about something else and the next thing we knew another hour had gone by. We didn’t hang up until after one in the morning.

  I did the math when we got off the phone. We’d been talking for nearly four hours. I don’t think I’ve ever talked on the phone so long with a guy, and the crazy thing was, it didn’t feel like four hours at all. It went by so quickly.

  I fell asleep, curled up on my side, with a smile on my face and the warm timbre of Brett’s voice echoing around in my mind.

  Rayce walks into my office shortly after he arrives for the day, a folded newspaper in one hand, and I smile up at him.

  He raises one mock-stern brow at me. “I’d ask why you have that sloppy grin on your face, but I think I know.”

  “Huh?”

  He rolls his eyes. “First Connor, now you.” Before I can ask any more questions, he slaps the paper down on my desk.

  My eyes leap across three pictures, all of me and Brett at the Concert Under the Stars. I immediately know our local gossip columnist, Rita Becker, is at it again. She seems to take particular delight in digging up salacious details about prominent Swan Pointe citizens—us included, unfortunately—and when she can’t find anything good, she’ll just make something up.

  There’s a picture of Brett and me spreading out the blanket, another of us during dinner—I’m raising my glass to take a sip of wine, and we’re both smiling flirtatiously at one another—and a third photo of us sitting in the chairs and covered up with the blanket. It’s dark, so I don’t make out much more than that with a quick glance.

  Connor wanders through the door, grinning ear to ear, apparently well aware of what Rayce and I are talking about. While Rayce is standing there with an exasperated expression, I can see he’s not too upset. Good thing, too. Rita published pictures of Connor and Whitney when they were first dating, and apparently Rayce went off on him about it. (Mainly because he and Connor were at each other’s throats almost constantly anyway. I’m so glad that’s over.)

  “You children seriously need to stop making out in public,” Rayce says.

  “I wasn’t—” But I lean in to get a better look at the photo of us in the chairs. Sure enough, Brett and I are kissing. This is no chaste kiss either, you can see that plain as day. I can see why she published it. But at least that’s all we’re doing. Still, I get a warm flush just looking at them, remembering the way he kissed me that night. Then a swoop of heat as the memories of everything we’ve done since then wash over me.

  I can’t help it. I grin up at Rayce without a trace of remorse and Connor starts laughing.

  “Oh good Lord,” he says, rolling his eyes. Connor comes up and swipes the paper off my desk, trying to get a better look himself.

  “Come on.” I lean back in my chair. “I can’t help what Rita Becker does and anyway, it was just a kiss.”

  Connor leans in closer to the paper, squinting his eyes and turning his head. “Wait a minute. Where are his hands?”

  I lean forward and snatch it out of his hands. “Give me that.”

  He starts laughing again.

  I stick my tongue out and that only makes him laugh harder.

  “Just read it,” Rayce says, gesturing to the paper. “Let me know if you want to talk damage control.”

  “Why?” I flip it upright so I can read it. “What’s it say?”

  “Just stuff about Brett Carmichael sleeping his way to a contract with us.”

  “That little hussy,” I say lowly. This is the kind of thing that bothers me, I admit, but this time I’m irritated more on Brett’s behalf than mine. I learned a long time ago how to work past the initial discomfort and let stuff like this slide off my back, but I don’t know how Brett will react to it. It’s not fun being the target of Rita’s games, there’s no getting around that. I hope this doesn’t upset him too much.

  I lower the paper and glance up at Rayce. “Any thoughts?” I ask, meaning damage control and knowing he’ll already have an idea.

  “There’s no truth to it, right?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then I say we let this one slide. Don’t fuel the fire. She doesn’t have any fuel of her own to keep it going.”

  I toss the paper onto my desk and lean back in my chair, thinking about it as Rayce takes a seat. “Yeah. You’re probably right. Besides, he’s technically Rod’s contractor, not mine. So that helps.”

  “People will still talk,” Connor says, following Rayce’s lead and sitting too.

  “Can’t help that.” I shrug and they both nod.

  “More importantly,” Rayce says, leaning his arms on his knees. “How are things going with you two?”

  I prop my elbows on my desk and drop my chin on both hands, smiling at Rayce. “I reeeeeallly like him.” I practically breathed that sentence.

  “Like him, or like him like him?” Connor asks, grinning.

  I stick my tongue out at him again and he chuckles. Little stinker.

  “Is he treating you well?” Rayce asks.

  Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling. “Yes, Dad.”

  He smiles too. “Just looking out for you.”

  “I know.” My brothers have always looked out for me. Even when Connor was still several inches shorter than me, he was always protective. It goes both ways though. I’m pretty protective of them, too.

  “They’ve been on one date,” Connor says. “At least give them a chance to go on another one before you start grilling her.”

  I blush, remembering again just how much we’ve done since that one date. Thank god Rita didn’t get a picture of us in Room 701. Rayce would not be keeping his cool about that one. Housekeeping always preps the room the morning of Katherine Camillo’s arrival—including fresh sheets even though they also change them after she checks out as well—so there’s no harm. But still. What Brett and I did in that bed is definitely best left between us.

  Connor gives me a quizzical look, noticing my blush, no doubt. Time for a subject change. “Hey, do you and Whitney have plans this weekend?”

  “You never know.” They’re both giving me amused looks, well aware that I’m
steering the conversation in a new direction. They let it go, though. “Nothing specific yet. We’re kind of on hold until we can move in, then we’ll be plenty busy.”

  Their house closes a week from today, as a matter of fact, but that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

  “Good. Brett was telling me about this antique store on Locust Street.”

  “There’s an antique store on Locust Street?” Rayce asks.

  “That was my reaction too. It’s tucked back behind the post office over there.”

  Rayce shrugs, apparently still drawing a blank, but Connor nods. “Oh, right. I’ve noticed that before.”

  “Well, it doesn’t get much off-the-street traffic, thanks to where it’s located, but apparently that’s how they like it. Most of their clientele are designers. Brett heard about it from the interior designers who share the building he works in. I thought I’d check it out this weekend and invite Whitney to go with me. She’s got such a good eye.”

  He nods, looking proud of her. So cute. “She does.”

  “I’ll give her a call. See if she’s up for it.”

  “I’m surprised you’re not going with Brett.” He bats his lashes at me.

  “He has his son this weekend.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Stop teasing me.”

  He and Rayce grin at one another and stand at the same time. “Our work here is done,” Connor says.

  “Juveniles,” I mutter as they leave my office, chuckling at one another.

  I glance at the paper, pause, then pick it up with a resolute sigh. I read the entire thing, just to be in the know, then pick up the phone to give Brett a call. I’ll be on the job site later, meeting with the graphic designer I hired to give her a tour and talk branding, but I don’t want to wait until then to talk to Bret about this.

  By the time the line’s ringing, I’m nervous. I’ve had my entire life to learn how to respond to this kind of thing, but I don’t know how he’ll handle it. I wonder if he already knows, and if so, how he found out. The worst way, I know, is to get blindsided with it by someone random. Always better when someone you know and trust can deliver the news.

  He finally answers. “Hey you. Long time no talk.”

  I hear the smile in his voice, and hope that means he doesn’t know yet. “Yeah.” His voice draws a smile out of me in spite of the reason for my call. “Are you tired today?”

  “Not yet. I’ll probably crash around the time I’m picking Max up from daycare. You?”

  “Not too bad. I’m staying stocked with coffee.”

  “Nothing like legal drugs to make the day go by.”

  I laugh, but it doesn’t sound quite right. My nerves are showing. “Hey,” I say, more seriously. “I’m calling because... have you seen today’s Voice?”

  “No. Should I have?”

  “Well...” I take a deep breath. “We’re in it.”

  A brief silence.

  I talk through it. “There’s pictures of us at the concert. In Rita Becker’s gossip column.”

  “I see.”

  “She’s also, um, making accusations. About how you got the contract.”

  He swears softly.

  “I’m sorry, Brett. I know this doesn’t feel good, but my brothers and I all agree the best thing to do is let this blow over. When stuff like that is trumped up, there’s just not enough to keep it going, usually.”

  “Usually?” He sounds frustrated, but not overly so, I’m grateful to hear.

  “I mean, she could try to put some legs on it, but I doubt this will make the mainstream headlines. There’s just nothing to it. If the only place it appears is her column, it’ll blow over quickly enough. You’ll see.” I hope I’m right, because you never know.

  He sighs. “Yeah. Okay.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know.” But there’s a grin in his voice. “I might need you to come over here and kiss me all better.”

  A warm flush springs to my cheeks and I squeeze my legs together, which are crossed under my desk. It takes fucking nothing for Brett to get me going.

  “Maybe I will.” I’m grinning too.

  “Oh shit,” he says, swearing more forcefully this time.

  “What?”

  “My mother doesn’t know.”

  I glance at the picture of us kissing in the dark. “About us?”

  “No. We’re all having dinner over there this weekend and I was going to tell her then.”

  “Does she read the Voice regularly?”

  “Regularly enough.”

  “God, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault. And it’s not a problem. I’m not hiding you from her, I just wanted to tell her face to face because...”

  Another drop of silence.

  “Because we’ve publicly scratched each other’s eyes out?”

  For the most part, I’ve spent this time with Brett almost completely forgetting who his mother is. When I do remember, I get a rush of tight nerves. I’ve been trying not to think too much about his mother, and what kind of complications she might present if our relationship continues to progress. Now that we’re actually talking about her, my worries come straight to the surface.

  “That’s all water under the bridge.” He doesn’t sound too certain.

  I groan.

  “Really,” he says. “Don’t worry. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “I have to get back to work, but I’ll see you later. One o’clock, right?” We’d already planned for him to text me at one to tell me where he is so I can bring the designer through on her tour. And maybe sneak back after to see him.

  “Right. You sure you’re okay?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m tough.” He grunts like Tarzan.

  I laugh and we say our goodbyes. After we hang up, it takes a while to find my groove with work. It turns out Brett Carmichael is quite a persistent distraction. He’s never far from my thoughts. I have plenty to do, too, before Katherine Camillo gets here. We usually have dinner in our five-star restaurant Commoners her first night here, so that’s where my evening will go.

  But even though I’ve spent the majority of the last two days either with Brett or on the phone with him, I wish I could spend the evening with him instead. Even if we didn’t have Katherine in town, and even if it weren’t probably too soon for him to want to get together again anyway, he has Max now, so he’s not available either.

  I still don’t know what I think about the fact that he has a son. I’m torn between really wanting to meet that little guy and being really nervous at the prospect of it. It’s not that I’m afraid of kids, exactly, but this particular kid is kind of important. What if he doesn’t like me? What if I’m not sure how to handle him?

  I’m trying not to think about it too much, because I don’t want to get that far ahead of myself, but I’m not ignorant to the long-term implications of getting serious with someone with a child. The phrase “instant family” has sprung to mind more than once and that’s when I’m gripped by a little swoop of panic. That’s certainly not a path I ever imagined for myself. But more than that, what if I don’t have what it takes?

  As I head up to the ballroom to meet with our Events Manager and wedding coordinator, I allow those worries to slip to the back of my mind—it’s really too soon anyway—and return to the thought I seem to have approximately every five and a half minutes. When will I get to see him again? I mean really see him.

  I’ll let him take the lead there, because I don’t want to go too fast and scare him away. But if it were up to me, the answer would be tonight. Somehow. Tonight. Because after the ups and downs I’ve experienced in the relationship department, it’s never been this easy with anyone. This instant. This strong.

  Brett Carmichael.

  Who would’ve guessed?

  Chapter 19

  Brett

  When Lizzy told me about the article, it took me by surprise, but didn’t really sink in. Her confident reassurance was comforting, to
o, so the idea that she and I were in a column remained this vague thing kind of floating on the periphery. After I got off the phone with her, my curiosity got the better of me. I drove to Guido’s Pizza around the corner and at the base of the bluff, to grab a soda and a copy of the Voice.

  That’s when things got real. As I sat in my truck reading that article, with it all there in front of me in black and white, it knocked the wind out of me. I read the article and all its damning insinuations again, not knowing what I felt. I was gripped by so many different emotions at once, there were too many to clearly identify at first. As the initial shock lessened, they revealed themselves in layers.

  The first layer was easiest to pinpoint. I’d never felt so violated and exposed. Assaulted, almost, given the accusations that woman was so amusedly tossing around in her shit column. Implying I slept with Elizabeth Rivers just to get a contract with her was a low fucking blow. It made me want to tell everyone I saw—the whole damned town—that it’s not true.

  But that’s not possible. There really isn’t a damn thing I can do now that it’s done. Helpless. That was another layer.

  Then there was that bitter moment of clarity when I realized, yet again, that the last way to really know anyone is through the papers, especially Rita Becker’s gossip column. I felt shamed by all the things I’d read—and halfway believed—about various people in the community who I don’t really know. Even when I dismissed something in her column as speculative gossip, which I often did, the next time I would see or think about the target of her musings, I’d wonder. Her words would cast a little fog of doubt, no matter how much I reminded myself it probably wasn’t true.

  My disgust at Rita’s behavior, and my own, gave birth to the next layer of emotion: determined resolution to never read her column again. Or the Voice for that matter. Shame on them for publishing such drivel. Shame on me for reading it.

  Fear came next. Fear for the possible consequences to my professional reputation. Fear of losing the respect of my employees and colleagues in the field. And—this most of all—fear that this could somehow impact little Max.